


blood is red and sweet as cherry wine

by gayprophets



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Anxiety Disorder, Canon Disabled Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Depression, Gay Character, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Nonbinary Hange Zoë, Panic Attacks, Trans Character, Trans Eren Yeager, Trans Jean, Trans Male Character, Zombie Apocalypse, nonbinary nanaba, trans hanji, trans!eren, trans!jean
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-23
Updated: 2016-10-05
Packaged: 2018-06-04 01:37:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6635731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gayprophets/pseuds/gayprophets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been six months since the apocalypse started, and since then he's lost everyone and everything, all except for the clothes on his back and a stolen black Ford F150. His family's gone, the groups he joins seem to spontaneously combust... He's accepted it. He gets people killed. So how he's just going to drive until he runs out of gas and hope he doesn't go stir-crazy first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hanji - or, The Start of Something New

**Author's Note:**

> yes the title is a hozier song (partially but i felt red was more fitting than rare)

Jean’s killed three people since the apocalypse started. Really, he’s one of the lucky ones, the last time he was in a group they asked how many people someone had killed before they could join, and he heard answers that scared him. Ten, twelve, twenty three, from people who lived through the worst and somehow ended up on top.

(Sometimes, though, Jean wondered if surviving what they had was really worth it, if maybe they were better off dead, rather than dealing with the horrors and the aftermath of what they had done.)

But then that group had gone and combusted like someone dropped a sparkler in a powderkeg doused in kerosene (just like the ones before it), and Jean thinks that that’s when he finally got it through his head that he was the problem, the reason everything kept blowing up, and that the only way to survive this was to grab a car and as much gas as he could, and start running.

He just didn’t realize that being on the road alone could be so lonely. Or boring. And watching his own back is borderline impossible, he hasn’t had a good night’s sleep in ages, and sometimes he starts to forget his own name, how old he is, how long he’s been out on the pockmarked and occasionally impossible to navigate stretches of highway…

When he finally sees a living face, he’s just about stir-crazy enough to pull his truck (well, not his, he sort of stole it) over and offer them a ride.

They don’t even hesitate, just clamber on in, all gangly limbs, greasy grey and red-brown ponytail, and a beak of a nose, and take up all their space and half of his as well.

“I’m Hanji, Hanji Zoe.” They say, cheerfully, as they throw their backpack in the back seat, although they keep their gun out and in their lap. “They/them pronouns, if you please, and if you don’t please. Remember, there’s no one to arrest me if I shoot ‘cha, so what do you have to lose?” They lean over and grin right next to his face, although it looks more like they’re baring their teeth. 

Jean laughs nervously and wonders what the hell he’s gotten himself into before he replies. “Jean. He. Where am I taking you?”

Hanji lets out a pleased little hum and slouch back in the seat, kicking their blood and mud encrusted boots up onto the dashboard. “‘Round fifty miles thataways,” They say with a lazy point in the direction they were heading. “Hope that’s not too much trouble for you, but I got a base there, you can get some gas, food, little ammo… A quick health check even, if you want, we’ve got a very good doctor. A little repayment for giving me a lift. Like a taxi service, right?”

“A check-up would be nice.” Jean admits, then jumps when they reach over and ruffle his matted hair. 

“Or maybe a haircut!” Hanji cackles. “You look like you were on the business end of a weedwhacker and then were in a coffin for six months, my boy.”

“Or,” Jean says, putting the car in gear, “I look like I’ve been living through the zombie apocalypse.”

Hanji’s barking laughter fills the cab, and Jean grins.

 

Jean learns very, very fast that Hanji is a talker, a loud one and a close one. And they can talk about anything, even without any responses, which is good, because Jean has about as much to say as a brick wall.

Hanji has a wife, Petra, and according to them she’s a goddess, an angel, and all that is good, pure, and holy in life, she and can kill 15 stiffs without batting an eyelash. They have a daughter, Nona, whose generosity and kindness have taken on a bitter edge that worries Hanji greatly, even though they understand it’s for the best. The best weapon against stiffs is a good bat, or a metal pipe, although the five pound sledgehammer they have is pretty nifty for a good crack in the head, because it doesn’t get stuck like a hammer. Hanji has  _ experiments _ , they were a  pathologist before the world went to shit, and now they test out ways to kill them, ways to cure them, and while there’s no cure yet, but Hanji says they’re certain that they and their lab assistant, Moblit, can find at least a vaccine for it, if they live long enough.

Eventually, they pause for breath, and Jean gently asks why they’re so far away from their group and their base.

“Got kidnapped on a supply run.” Hanji replies, and their cavalier tone almost makes Jean hit the breaks. “Nasty little gang of cannibals, got the jump on me and hauled me off. Doesn’t matter anymore though, they’re dead now. Dead-dead. Not stiff dead.”

Jean nods and glances nervously down at the gun in their lap again.

The catch his gaze and elbow him in the ribs - none too gently, and not for the first time, he probably has bruises unrelated to his binder now - and cackle some more. “Dont worry, kid, I ain’t gonna shoot cha. Unless ya try somethin’, then we got a problem. But I’ve got good instincts. I think you’re alright, if a bit odd.”

Jean just nods.

“Take the next exit!” Hanji says, then starts telling him about the group of people they’re with, and something in him knows it’s partially an intimidation tactic.  _ We’ve got all these dangerous people, so don’t try anything. _

He wasn’t going to anyways, but it is nice to know exactly what he’s going in to.

 

It’s a hotel, the building they’ve refurbished into a base. A hotel with sniper points, because the second the car stops there’s at four little red dots aiming at his chest, and another two at Hanji’s. They just smile, and rather than waiting for instructions from the people who are  _ aiming guns at them, _ they kick open the door and fling themselves out of the truck, practically tackling the tall blond man who was approaching the car.

Jean just does his best to keep his breathing even.

The man and Hanji have a short discussion (Jean can hear Hanji’s voice, though not what they’re saying), then the man nods, waves to the top of the building, signalling the snipers to -

The red dots disappear. Jean thunks his forehead against the steering wheel and makes a pathetic whimpering noise. 

Hanji opens the door again and leans into the cab. “If ya legs still work, you can get out now. Nanaba - they’re our doctor - is gonna take a look at cha, then we can talk about repayment.”

Jean slowly straightens up and nods, and when his feet hit the ground, his legs are surprisingly steady.

 

Nanaba is calm, blonde, and utterly silent until she notices his binder. Then they begin lecturing him for a good ten minutes on the absolute importance of taking it off at least occasionally.

“What are you gonna do when you break a rib and need to run?” They say sternly, prodding at his already abused ribs with  _ stunningly _ cold fingers. “You’re not gonna get too far. End up as another one of those damn things out there. Plus, it’s losing it’s elasticity. Not gonna bind as well.”

“I know,” Jean says, unable to keep his irritation out of his voice. “I’m the one wearing it.”

“I’m gonna give you a sports bra,” Nanaba continues, as though Jean hasn’t said anything, “And I want you to start wearing it in two weeks, but during those two weeks, don’t wear anything compressing at all, to give your body some time to heal. I know I can’t  _ make _ you, but I’d hate to go out for something and see your body staggering towards me.”

He’d like to protest, but they’re right. His sternum pops when he stretches and his cough - which was bad before the apocalypse - sounds like he’s been smoking two packs a day for sixty years, complete with the feeling of his lungs trying to crawl up his throat and out his mouth. If he ever had to actually run more than fifteen feet back to his truck, he’d die.

Nanaba has Hanji get the sports bra. It’s eye-bleeding yellow and accepting it feels too much like he’s joining another group for his comfort. He stuffs it in the bottom of his backpack with his binder and tries to forget about it.

The itching sensation of becoming part of a team again only gets worse as they they’re joined by another blond guy. He’s different than the one who met them outside and called off the snipers. He towers over them all, he smells Jean and nods before announcing that, yes, this one is good people, he likes this one, and Nanaba has to tell Jean that his name is Mike.

He ends up refusing both the haircut and the shower that are offered for him, and takes a few cans of food and some gas as repayment for bringing Hanji home. Erwin (the one who greeted them, he seems to be in charge of everything, and Hanji called him commander) asks him to bring anyone he finds who needs a place to stay to them, because they’re trying to rebuild society.

Jean told him he would. But he’s never going to pick anyone up again. This group's going to explode soon anyways. They all do.

This time, he’s not going to get caught in the blast radius. 


	2. Connie and Sasha - or, Trost Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes you need to go where things are familiar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAHA SORRY GUYS IM BACK NOW HIATUS OVER im so so sorry "may" i am a liar
> 
> this isnt edited or beta'd because A) i dont a beta and B) i just wanted to get it here for yall asap. please tell me where the errors are.

Homesickness might as well be a virus, one that sets in the second Jean crosses the border into Massachusetts, the “Massachusetts Welcomes You!” sign leering as he drives by. He just wants to go home. He wants to open his front door again and hear his father and brother yelling at the TV, smell his mother's cooking, collapse onto his bed, bury his face in the sun-faded blue comforter and sleep and sleep and _sleep_. He wants to forget that he failed them, wants to forget everything that's happened - he wants to go back and fix it.

He wants to say he’s sorry.

He pulls over on the side of the road and cries.

  


He was home when the world went to shit. Campus closed down just before the worldwide state of emergency was declared, and he joined the rush of traffic to get back to wherever you were from, sitting in his car for four hours rather than one and a half. The streets alternated between packed and desolate, 24-hour emergency broadcasts blaring from every radio, tv, and loudspeaker available. “UNKNOWN DEADLY CONTAGION SPREADING” Electronic traffic signs blinked at him, text glaring orange, “STAY INDOORS AND IN GROUPS, AVOID ALL CONTACT WITH INFECTED.”

“The CDC is not being forthcoming with the nature of the rapidly spreading virus, only that the symptoms are foaming at the mouth, slurred speech, unnatural resistance to pain, and aggression.” The radio hissed at him, words spitting between patches of static. He changed the station.

“The rumor mill has been working full time, and some are saying that it's a weaponized form of rabies. Aishia, do you think this could be an act of terrorism?”

“Honestly, Frank, I don't know. No group or organization has come forward to claim responsibility for the spread, and even though boarders have shut down and most social media sites have crashed, reports are slipping in that it's worldwide -,”

He shut the radio off as panic bubbled in his throat and gut, made his hands shake and his eyes wet. He pulled into the breakdown lane and floored it.

 

Jean doesn’t remember when he stopped crying, nor starting the truck again, or even making the decision to come back to Trost, but he must have at some point, because here he is. His hometown in in worse shape than he remembers it being when he left it. Whole buildings blown out, burnt skeletons with charcoal ribs and ash for teeth, stark and mournful against the red leaves and the clouded grey skies, the images blurred behind sheets of pelting rain.

Neon graffiti arches up the ones that haven’t gotten torched. Some are messages, “VICTORIA WE MISS YOU,” in neat blue script, “THE GOVERNMENT LIED TO US!!!” in jagged white, “55 ZOMBIES INSIDE, RAN OUT OF MATCHES AND KEROSENE, BURN ASAP,” in a rushed orange, with a wildly flailing arm sticking out through a broken windowpane. Some is just names, and Jean thinks that there’s some poetry on a shop's window, but the jagged line in the middle of it means someone got rudely interrupted. “ART WILL ALWAYS SURVIVE” blares out at him from the side of the church his family used to take him to. Everything's changed since he left.

The ocean is the same, though, blue-black like a bruise and churning, churning, churning with the power of the storm that's a few hours off.

He just keeps driving, instinct taking him home.

 

His room's window is still broken. It’s not surprising, really. He was the one who broke it. But the change is jarring, like someone should have been by to fix it by now. One curtain is hanging out the window, edges caught on the jagged glass. It’s splatted in a dark, rusty brown, and Jean glances at the pink scars on his knuckles and right arm. He pulls his pistol out from underneath his seat, and steps out of the truck.

The door is locked. He picks up a rock beside the door and is about to smash another window when he remembers the key in his pocket.

“Open the door like a human being, Jean,” He mumbles to himself as he unlocks it. “You aren’t an animal.” _Yet_ , his brain whispers. _You_ _aren’t an animal_ ** _yet_** _._

Once inside he turns to lock it again on reflex, and a shotgun shell ratchets into place behind him with a cold nudge of a barrel to the back of his head. He freezes.

“Talk fast or I’ll blow your head off. How the fuck did you get that key?”

“I used to live here!” He yelps. “Don’t shoot, please, god, I’ll get out -,”

“Wait - Jean?!”

The voice places with a mental click. “Sasha?”

The second the shotgun isn’t pressed into his skull he whirls around, eyes immediately landing on Sasha and Connie, both of whom are doing their very best fish impression. Sasha’s shotgun clatters to the floor.

“Watch the ribs!” He screeches as they both crash into him, laughing.

In a few seconds, he’s laughing too.

 

They aren’t the people he remembers. He’s not the person they remember, either. Jean can tell. Sasha’s eyes, hawk like before, are like drills, boring holes into the side of his face as they eat in silence. The cold tomato soup tastes distinctly like the can it was in, even though they’re eating out of real bowls, his mother's fine china because being together is a celebration, and using silverware, rather than chugging it straight out of the can like a smoothie.

A single candle gutters miserably in front of them, belching up wisps of black smoke and the smell of caramel. The joyful air of the reunion faded almost as quickly as it came. Something sits like a stone between them all, weighted and grey.

Connie clinks his spoon against a chip in his bowl arrhythmically. Sasha’s breathing next to him is off, hesitant. He glances over at her, trying not to look like he’s inspecting her. He feels like if he makes a wrong move, they’ll shoot him in the foot and toss him out, friend or not, his house or not. She sits gingerly on the chair, ankles crossed, She’s pressing her left arm to her side - no, not pressing. Holding, gently. Barely brushing her shirt.

“Did you break a rib?”

Connie drops his spoon.

“How did yo - you know what? I don’t want to know how you could tell.” Sasha sighs, leaning into him. He jumps about a half foot in the air at the contact and she sits up instantly with a small smile. Jean wants her to lean back into him but can’t quite find the words to show just how touch starved he is.

“I did, yeah. Was climbing a fence -,”

“Chain link,” Connie introjects. “Tryin’ to get away from a pack -,”

“One of ‘em managed to slam into it just right -,”

“Not one, it was like five at once, I was already down the other side -,”

“And they knocked me into one of the supports and over the top.” Jean isn’t thrown by their back and forth method of storytelling. Years of practice deciphering their verbal ping pong has made him an expert in understanding them.

“She hit her head when she hit the ground -,”

“I did not!” Sasha interrupts. “I don't even remember _falling_ -,”

“My whole point _exactly_ -,”

“But I remember hearing a crunch as my ribcage hit the pole. Connie,” She reaches a foot in front of his legs, so Jean hooks his ankles inside the stool as they start playing footsie around him. “Practically carried me home. Hasn't allowed me outta the house since.”

“Would you like to make the concussion worse?” Connie says.

Jean half listens, a small smile on his face. Sasha and Connie have been dating since seventh grade, and had called each other boyfriend and girlfriend since the day they met in kindergarden.

“Anyways!” Sasha chirps, aiming one last kick at Connie that half catches Jean’s shin. “What’s happened with you? It’s been -,” She glances at the calendar on the wall.

“Six months.” Connie finishes. “We saw your room and just… Assumed the worst.” The scars on Jeans arm twinge.

“Our houses got torched.” Sasha says quietly. “My dad, Connie’s moms…” She breaks off with a wet sounding cough. Connie starts clinking his spoon again. “It was rough. We wanted someplace familiar, thought you and your folks would be home -,”

“We’re so sorry about Mylius.” Connie says. “I’m so sorry, Jean. I’m so so sorry.”

His vision is fuzzy.

Something’s banging at the door of his room. Whump rattle. Whump rattle. Whump rattle, clatter as the metal KEEP OUT sign he stuck on as a teenage hits the floor. Whump rattle. Whump rattle.

He throws a few things into his bag, back to the door, refusing to look. His mother’s wailing has stopped, the car outside started. His phone charger. Another shirt. More jeans, wool socks. Wedges his box full of needles and testosterone inside.

Whump rattle. Whump rattle. Whump rattle.

Whump rattle _click_.

The door slams open.

His hand is on his old softball trophy and he throws it through the window, opening takes time, too much time. Glass shattering. Jamming his hand through the window, so much blood covering the shards. Jumping as he feels Mylius’ hands grasp his hood and screaming, he can’t tell whose it is but it sounds like maybe the world.

The earth rushes by. He hits the ground with a crunch. He forgot the bag.

“-ean please, you’re safe, I promise, can you take a deep breath for me? Focus on my voice.”

He’s not in a ragdolled heap in the bushes outside his house. He’s inside, the tile of the floor is slick and cool against his sweaty palms. Connie crouches in front of him, hazel eyes wide.

“You’re safe, Jean.” Sasha says. He can’t see her and his ears wont locate the direction sound is coming from.

He stands up on shaky legs and throws up in the sink.

 

* * *

 

“Sure you don’t want to stay until the storm blows over?” Sasha asks him.

“Might be safer.” Connie says. Lightning cracks outside in agreement, thunder rumbling through the floor and inside Jean’s chest.

“Yeah, no. I-I need to leave. Can’t be in this house anymore. Whatever I was looking for by coming back…”

“Ain’t here.” Sasha finishes.

“No.”

They stay in silence for a second. Jean stares at the floor. Rain slaps against the roof

“You could come with me, you kn-,”

“Nah,” Connie bleats. “We got it here. Like to stay in famillar places, yknow?”

Jean nods slowly. “Yeah. I know.”

“Oh! Jean, we found your backpack -,”

“You did?” Jean’s heart jumps into his throat. “Do you still-,”

“Of course, man. It’s upstairs in your room. I can go get it for you -,” Connie starts.

Jean cuts him off. “No, I’ll do it.”

“Jean, are you sure?” Connie asks. “I mean, you just had a full blown panic attack at the mention of… Whatever happened up there.”

“It’s fine. I can handle it.” Jean doesn’t correct him. He wishes it was a panic attack. He doesn’t want to think what it actually is, and what it really means.

He skips the creaky fourth stair like usual, but the seventh one creaks, makes him pause. Family photos glare at him from their frames. _Betrayer_ , they whisper. _Betrayer_ , _murderer_ , _betrayer_.

A dark stain on the carpet. He steps over it. Doesn’t look, doesn’t think.

His room smells like the rain and mold. His Harry Potter book collection mildewed and ruined, Vampire Weekend posters torn. The curtian hangs heavy and wet in the window.

All the hairs on Jean’s neck stand on end.

He grabs his backpack off the bed and runs. Says goodbye to Connie and Sasha, gives them the location of Hanji’s group _just in case_. Just in case seems to be coming in handy a lot lately.

He leaves Trost with no clue where to go next.

 

A lanky brunette walks along the highway, oblivious to the storm raging around her. Jean pulls the truck up alongside her.

“Hey,” he says, “You need a ride?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leeets just pray that i actually have an update schedule and stick to it?? i think every two weeks. sorry for that long wait, i kinda got slammed. Please tell me what you think, comments are my life!

**Author's Note:**

> Jean has a black gc2b half binder. The story is set in New England. I'm posting SNK fanfic in the year of our Lord 2016.
> 
> Hopefully I'll have the next chapter up by the end of May! Please leave a review if you can!


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